


those long hot summer nights

by imalwaysstraight



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Anal Fingering, Bottom Ronan Lynch, Canon Compliant, Competency, Dirty Talk, Light Dom/sub, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ronan Lynch is Bad at Feelings, Sexting, canon compliant except for they still have monmouth whoops, except there is also just a little plot, ronan is into adam being competent what else is new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-11 23:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17456669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imalwaysstraight/pseuds/imalwaysstraight
Summary: Entropy had stuck with Ronan as the only bullshit involved in chemistry that he could actually see as feasible. Not because he’d ever understood the intricacies of molecular structures or anything like that, but because of moments like this one: where the universe had decided to condense an intense amount of chaos together into a single instant and dump it on him without warning, and he was all at once spitting out his beer and tripping sideways over a to-scale cardboard model of Henrietta’s post office and listening to Gansey say “what’s wrong?” in the most Gansey voice ever used and looking—yes, looking with his own damn eyes—at a nude photo of Adam Parrish on his own damn phone.Holy mother of God.Oh fuck.





	those long hot summer nights

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from good old-fashioned lover boy by queen because... it doesn't at all fit the mood of this fic but damn if it's not a bop

_Me, 1:37 AM_ ≫ cmon im waiting here parrish

 _Me, 1:37 AM_ ≫ not getting any younger

 _Me, 1:37 AM_ ≫ just wasting away, missing u

 _parrish, 1:37 AM_ ≫ lol damn fine

_parrish sent an image at 1:39 AM._

_parrish, 1:39 AM_ ≫ now shut up and let me finish this essay

 

Twenty minutes prior, Ronan Lynch had been a little buzzed and more than a little lonely when he’d slammed his bedroom door open.

It had been a while since he’d slept in here, but it had clearly been much longer since he’d cleaned. Without much optimism, he began digging through the piles of dirty clothes and dream crap on his floor.

“Who’s dying in there?” shouted Gansey from the main room. They were together at Monmouth, by some miracle: the trio was home from their gap year for all of November and December, so Blue could get in a few hours of waitressing/psychic business and Henry could get in a few hours at the salon and Mrs. Gansey could get in a few million years of campaigning. Ronan was glad to have his brother back—he had missed Gansey, and wasn’t willing to even imagine what it would be like when he left for five straight months in January—but he had also gotten used to certain comforts of living with only a non-judgmental satyr child for company. Leaving all his stuff all over the place was number one on that list.

“Phone,” muttered Ronan by way of reply.

“What?” yelled Gansey, in that old-dingbat way of his.

“My _phone_ , you old dingbat,” Ronan hollered back, tossing a few dozen dream pens behind a pile of artfully ripped black jeans that he could not remember washing in recent history. He had forgotten there was so much _stuff_ in Monmouth. How was the Barns so much cleaner?

“Hush! You’ll wake Opal!”

Ronan scoffed and shoved a t-shirt under his dresser. “Kid sleeps through anything. Chainsaw lands on her face and she still snores.”

“Still! You know the wall between the guest room and yours is relatively quite thin.”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Ronan grunted—where had he _gotten_ all of these striped v-necks? No one he knew wore striped v-necks. He needed to get his shit together, set a better example for Opal— “Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps the fact that Noah knew everything about my life was less a result of the walls being thin and more because he was literally a ghost?”

“Hmm,” said Gansey, as though it had actually never occurred to him. “You may be right.”

“Ha!” Ronan stood up, triumphant, holding his phone in his grasp. “Got it.”

“Bully for you,” Gansey Ganseyed.

“You have no idea,” said Ronan without thinking much. He was too busy getting down to business: opening his texts app and choosing Parrish and typing out:

 _Me, 1:16 AM_ ≫ u up?

It took three long minutes of throwing laundry around his room in a hopeless attempt at self-improvement before there was a buzz from his back pocket.

 _parrish, 1:19 AM_ ≫ Lynch. Is this a booty call?

Ronan smiled, and then smirked, and then remembered Gansey couldn’t see him and smiled again.

 _Me, 1:20 AM_ ≫ no i just like to know ur sleep schedule

 _Me, 1:21 AM_ ≫ not thinking about u while i do anything else at all ever

 _Me, 1:24 AM_ ≫ OK fine im gay for u adam r u fuckin happy this is a booty call come over

 _Parrish, 1:25 AM_ ≫ Ronan. I have a paper due in my 9 AM tomorrow. Can this wait until then, please?

This displeased Ronan more than he would ever admit to Gansey or Adam or Blue or anyone. He didn’t want to be obsessive. He really didn’t. It was just—he was in love with a boy who was very far away in New York, and he was here in Bumfuck, Virginia, and Thanksgiving was still three weeks away, and sometimes that was only frustrating and sometimes it was just downright upsetting. Ronan wanted to cry and punch a wall and run until his legs failed and make Adam moan.

How was he supposed to say that? That as bad as he still was at communicating literally anything besides primal needs (“water,” “air,” “pizza,” “touch”), he wanted? That as stupidly terrible as he was at being healthy, Adam was so undeniably good for him that it hurt to be six hours away? That when all was as it should be, his world was focused down to Adam, Adam, Adam, nothing more, nothing less.

He couldn’t say that. Not over text. So instead, he panicked, and tried the next best thing:

 _Me, 1:26 AM_ ≫ god its so hot when you talk dirty to me babe

Well. The text got exponentially less funny by the second once he’d sent it. Ronan flopped down on his bed. He’d done relatively little tonight—no cars or boys (obviously) or drugs—but it still felt like an adrenaline high. He was definitely across the line from buzzed into tipsy, or he would’ve been if Ronan Niall Lynch got tipsy. Maybe he was just drunk. God, was he drunk alone? (Gansey didn’t really count as intoxicated until he couldn’t walk. Tipsy Gansey still Ganseyed on as usual, just louder.) Was that good for him? He pried the shame off of his throat. He’d had maybe four drinks worth of whiskey. That wasn’t terrible. And it was the first time he’d had alcohol since Halloween with Matthew last week, and that had just been a glass of hard cider, and the last time he had drunk before that had been in early September, when he and Blue had spent a long and truly hilarious night jointly polishing off a box of wine. He was getting a lot better at this. Once in awhile didn’t hurt, he didn’t think.

 _Parrish, 1:28 AM_ ≫ So you lay awake at night and think about me talking about my GPA? Hot.

Oh. _Oh._ Parrish had taken the bait. He was... sexting? Sort of? It was an un-Adam word for an un-Adam concept. Adam didn’t like things that weren’t achingly real, that he couldn’t reach out and touch.

But... well, shit. Fuck. Christ. If drunk Ronan could remember more swear words, he would have said them to himself.

Ronan looked at the text more and shifted against his bed and thought about Adam and tried not to get hard. He thought about Adam more, sleepy, rumpled 1 AM Adam, hardworking Adam who didn’t have time for his bullshit, who knew what he wanted and got it, who was still somehow, miraculously, _into_ him. Ronan tried harder.

 _Me, 1:29 AM_ ≫ well now i might

 _Me, 1:30 AM_ ≫ i’d rather hear u talk about ur gpa tho. like out loud. over the phone. asap

 _parrish, 1:31 AM_ ≫ I really have to work, Ronan

 _Me, 1:31 AM_ ≫ fine then :( I’m still lonely tho

 _parrish, 1:32 AM_ ≫ I promise I’ll make it up to you soon, Ronan. Anything I can do I’ll do it, just not tonight

And then, because sometimes Ronan thought he could get away with humor:

 _Me, 1:32 AM_ ≫ send nudes

There were ten seconds where Ronan seriously considered throwing his phone out the window. Or giving it to Gansey so he couldn’t wreak any more havoc on his own life. Oh, but then he’d have to explain why...

Maybe this would be it. Maybe Parrish would finally do it and break up with him. It’s not that he didn’t want...nudes. Ew. Terrible word. More accurately, it’s not that he didn’t want _Adam_. It just wasn’t the sort of thing he asked of Adam. He and Adam had so many of what Blue had called “interaction rules” during Sargent/Lynch wine night, a term apparently taken from her social sciences 101 class in high school: so many unspoken rules of what they did and did not do. Sure, they made out, and cuddled, and fucked, and spent most nights that they were in the same state sharing a bed, and called late into the night when they weren’t, but as much as they were AdamandRonan, they were also still Adam and Ronan. Teenage boys. Very much in love and absolutely never going to say it first ever. Lonely and wanting when apart, and awkward as fuck at expressing it.

Drunk Ronan was starting to care less and less about awkwardness. Fuck that.

 _parrish, 1:33 AM_ ≫ Ronan. Nudes? Really? You’ve stooped.

 _Me, 1:34 AM_ ≫ have u considered that I would actually like to hear you talk about ur gpa while I jerk off. that’s actually starting to sound like a good proposition. want you here

 _parrish, 1:36 AM_ ≫ I’m studying with friends. I wish I could call you for that. I really fucking do

Ronan’s breath caught. He shifted against the mattress and gulped. Adam had set him up to either let this go or press harder—knowing Adam, that set of options was deliberate.

 _Me, 1:37 AM_ ≫ cmon im waiting here parrish

 _Me, 1:37 AM_ ≫ not getting any younger

 _Me, 1:37 AM_ ≫ just wasting away, missing u

Ronan closed the app with a sense of finality. This was a lot. Too much, maybe. He needed some water, and whatever the fuck they had in the fridge, and a beer, and maybe another beer to wash that down. He needed Gansey, too, as he sometimes felt he was doomed to always need him, like a planet in orbit. He put his phone in his pocket and dizzily pushed himself off the bed.

The fridge had salami and raspberry jam and baby carrots in it, and Ronan ate them in messy alternation straight out of the containers, pleased with the joy of sloppy, drunken eating, and glad Gansey couldn’t see him, even though he wouldn’t have cared what Gansey thought, of course. When he’d had his fill, he grabbed a beer, popped the cap, and left the kitchen/bathroom/laundry. He felt his phone buzz on the way out. Probably—definitely—Adam again, with some teasing remark but some earnest excuse, another shred of patience slipping away, another crack in the facade, pushing them both towards a crossroads of Actual Adult Communication Ronan knew would find them soon. He licked the jam off his fingers so he wouldn’t have to put down the beer to check his phone.

“Ronan! Did you eat jam with your _hands_ ?” Gansey asked. Absurdly, Ronan thought, he said it in the same tone of voice with which he had once asked if Ronan had really done coke and if Ronan had really taken that bird out of his dreams. Ronan scoffed around his fingers—remembered Adam’s fingers in his mouth while they lay together on the couch on the first night he was really allowed to want him, _fuck_ —and then fished his phone out.

 _parrish, 1:37 AM_ ≫ lol damn fine

_parrish sent an image at 1:39 AM._

_parrish, 1:39 AM_ ≫ now shut up and let me finish this essay

There was a property of the universe called entropy, Ronan recalled faintly in the split second during which his heretofore known section of the world imploded, that essentially dictated that chaos will create itself. Despite his well-established dedication to paying as little attention in class as possible, he could remember his chemistry teacher blathering about it: disorder will eventually arise out of order, havoc out of peace.

Entropy had stuck with Ronan as the only bullshit involved in chemistry that he could actually see as feasible. Not because he’d ever understood the intricacies of molecular structures or orbitals or anything like that, but because of moments like this one: where the universe had apparently decided to condense an intense amount of chaos together into a single instant and dump it on him without warning, and he was all at once spitting out his beer and tripping sideways over a to-scale cardboard model of Henrietta’s post office and listening to Gansey say “what’s wrong?” in the most Gansey voice ever used and looking—yes, looking with his own damn eyes—at a nude photo of Adam Parrish on his own damn phone.

Holy mother of God.

Oh _fuck._

Some self-destructive piece of his brain wondered if it would be better to never speak to Adam again or to propose marriage right then.

“Ronan,” said Gansey, still alarmed.

Ronan collected himself back onto two feet. The post office would survive the damage. “Sorry,” he said. He stumbled toward his room. “Be right back.”

“What is it? Is it Adam?”

“Yes.”

“Is it bad?”

“No.”

“Should I be concerned?”

Ronan was shutting the door to his room, or at least trying to. “No. I’ll be right back.”

Gansey sighed. Ronan wasn’t sure what that meant he thought he knew. “I’ll put on headphones,” he called. Ronan rolled his eyes and got the door closed, finally.

He opened the picture again. Fuck, it was still Adam. He’d filled out a bit at college, defined abs and shoulders where before there had been mostly stringy muscles. The fluorescent lighting of the dorm bathroom wouldn’t do anyone any favors, but Adam was warmly radiant despite it, all smooth brown skin that paled a bit where it would’ve been hidden by a t-shirt, Adonis of the garage and the cornfield. (Ronan kicked himself a little bit for thinking that.)

His t-shirt was crumpled in his hand, and his jeans and underwear had been pulled down to midthigh—what _lines_ , those muscles in from his hip to his dick; Ronan could remember very vividly the first time he’d bitten down right there—and though the phone was blocking his face, the furrow of his brow made him look sufficiently sullen.

Pissed. At Ronan. For putting him in this position. For being _so damn needy_. For some reason, that thought made blood rush south.

Ronan fell on his bed face-first and hit call. It rang. It rang again. He thought about the time, two months after his mom had died and the world had ended, that he’d gotten stoned out of his mind and called Adam, and made him bring Nino’s all the way out to the Barns at 1 AM; how he’d tried to get Adam to stop being so sad about the fact that he was so incredibly stoned.

“It’s okay,” he’d cooed. “I’m okay. I’m just fine.” He thought about how Adam wouldn’t look him in the eye. All he would say was “Ronan,” long and mournful _._ High Ronan didn’t like this very much at all, tried to figure out what he could do to cheer him up. What he settled on was laying his head in Adam’s lap and saying, “I could spend the rest of my fucking life with you,” which was the truth, and which made Adam laugh harshly.

“You’re 18. You don’t know shit about yourself or your life.” Ronan thought about how this stupid, fucked-up, one-sidedly sober conversation was one of very few times they’d talked about the future and feelings and the things that were still terrible and gaping between them, the heaving and ragged things that would burn if ever touched. Ronan thought about how, later that night, Adam had fucked him for maybe the third time ever, holy and merciless, and he thought about how Adam had started crying halfway through, tears that had dripped down hot and then cooled as they ran along Ronan’s tattoo, and he thought about how they still hadn’t talked about it, had just finished and rolled over and gone to sleep.

The phone rang a third time. Adam picked up. “Ronan?” His voice was irritated. He was irritated. God, why was even that hot?

Ronan whimpered a little.

“Ronan,” he said again, but much deeper. Maybe Ronan was imagining that, but then, on the other end of the line: “Hang on, guys, sorry, it’s my boyfriend, I’ll be right back.” Ronan waited through some clunking and some shouting.

“Parrish,” he said, once it had quieted down. “You probably already have your A-fucking-plus locked down, you don’t need to stay up the whole damn night.”

“Ronan,” said Adam, breathless, and then a door slammed shut. “Lynch, you had better have a good explanation for all of this. And you had better thank your lucky stars I’m not in the library right now, and that I have a single, and that I miss you and your bullshit.”

“You texted me a fucking nude,” said Ronan. “Is that good enough?”

He could practically hear Adam roll his eyes.

“Ronan, I really do need to study, I don’t really have time for pranks,” he said, sounding stressed and tired and embarrassed, “and I’m sorry I don’t, and I’m sorry I sent you that photo, you were clearly joking, and—”

Ronan ground down against his sheets experimentally, and moaned. He _was_ , as it turned out, as hard as he’d thought.

Adam caught himself. “Oh,” he said. He sounded far less embarrassed than he had a second ago. “Okay.”

“I can’t believe,” Ronan switched which hand was holding the phone, “you sent me,” he paused to grab the lube from his nightstand drawer, “that fucking picture.”

Adam was silent on the other end. Ronan fumbled, trying to one-handedly get lube onto his one free hand. Eventually, it worked enough. He was about to duck his hand into his sweatpants when—

“Are you touching yourself?” Adam asked suddenly, sharply; quiet, intense.

“No.”

“Good. I have to go back to my friend’s room, so I can’t, and that would be unfair.”

“ _Adam_ ,” said Ronan, pushing his hips down again. God, that felt too good.

“What are you doing?”

Ronan huffed. “I’m just—just on my bed, and you just keep fucking saying things, _that_ isn’t fair.”

“I didn’t start this.”

“Adam,” Ronan said again.

“What?” asked Adam, feigning innocence, his patience fraying around the edges—fuck, that boy was clever.

Ronan wouldn’t—wouldn’t do this without his permission.

“Adam, _please_ ,” he whined a little. “Please, fuck.”

“Please what?”

“I’m don’t want to beg,” Ronan sort-of lied. He didn’t want to beg, that was technically true: he just wanted Adam to push him around and tell him what to do.

“Don’t you?” asked Adam.

But Adam couldn’t do that. He was so fucking far away.

“Come home.” Ronan said it before he could think about it. Adam sighed on the other end of the line. “Come home and touch me yourself, _fuck_ , please, Adam.”

“Do you have lube?” Adam asked, voice tense.

“Yes,” mumbled Ronan. “Can I finger myself?”

“Yeah.” Adam sounded like he’d been knocked a little breathless. “Yeah, fuck.”

Ronan wasn’t sure which was better: finally pushing a finger into himself, or Adam swearing.

He worked himself slowly, trying to be vocal, for Adam, trying to make sure every gasp carried on the phone. He thought about what Adam must’ve looked like right then, probably standing in his single, in the middle of the room, phone pressed to his ear; maybe, hopefully, at least half as hard and out of breath as Ronan was. He thought about Adam taking that picture, in the dorm bathroom, about Adam thinking about him, about how needy he must’ve sounded.

He pushed his dick down against his mattress again and added a second finger. “I can’t believe you sent that fucking picture, Parrish.”

And then, like Adam was psychic or something crazy like that: “How many fingers are you using?”

“Two,” said Ronan. He thought about Adam stroking himself in his dorm room, with his godforsaken hands.

“Did I say you could add another?” Adam was so good at pretending to be composed. So fucking capable. Ronan kind of enjoyed losing his mind over it.

“No,” he admitted.

“Think you can add a third?”

Ronan reached for more lube. When he pushed a third in, he gasped, dragging down on the mattress. “Adam,” he said, helpless. It felt like having his hands tied behind his back.

“Don’t come,” said Adam, sternly. Suddenly, Ronan wanted his hands tied. “Don’t,” said Adam again, and Ronan could hear what might’ve been a zipper and the rustle of fabric and a sigh, “don’t get ahead of me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ronan, trying to joke, and trying not to keep fucking himself.  He opted instead for enjoying Adam’s breathy laugh. He was clearly trying not to take Ronan seriously.

“I mean,” said Adam, “it’s only fair. I was just trying to do my final edits on my essay, and then you start texting me in the middle of the fucking night, and then five minutes later I’m half-hard in my friend’s room, and—shit—the least you could do for me is, fuck,” and then there was just a bit of breathing, and then some creaking. Ronan thought about Adam sitting back on his shitty dorm room bed, hand slow on his dick. “Is wait for me to catch up to you.”

“I miss you,” said Ronan. He began fucking himself again; it felt allowed.

“You think I don’t miss you too?” Adam said. Ronan finally hit the right place inside himself and gritted out a hoarse yelp. “You’re not coming, right?”

“No,” said Ronan, when he’d recovered, “I won’t.”

“Only when I tell you,” said Adam.

“Okay.”

It was just breathing for a little while, Ronan trying to keep it slow, trying not to drive himself up to the edge. He was so _full_. He wanted to tell Adam as much, and didn’t want to say it.

“I think about you all the time, Ronan,” Adam mumbled into the phone, and Ronan tried to pretend his voice was just next to his ear. “I think about The Barns and your tattoo and your mouth. Constantly. And your beautiful goddamn face, and sucking you off, and your dreams,” he added quietly. “Do you dream about me?”

“Yeah.”

“How long have you?”

“As long as I can remember.”

“You dreamed about me before you’d met me?”

Ronan laughed, soft, painful, trying to talk despite the mounting, overwhelming pleasure at the base of his spine. “I dreamed about—“ about being in love. He gulped. About wanting things too badly. About God. “About things that were too good for me.”

“Ronan,” it was almost a whine. “You’re not, you’re not beneath, you’re literally magic, and you’re the best, fuck, the best person I know, don’t, don’t say things like that, don’t talk— _fuck_ , I want you.”

“Adam,” Ronan cried, pushing a little harder and a little faster. “Adam, God,” he prayed.

“Don’t come until I tell you.” Ronan didn’t say anything, caught up in the back and forth between his sheets and his hand, and in the way Adam sounded over the goddamned phone. “You’re so good, Ronan, so good for me. I’m close, Ronan, fuck.”

And just like that he was on the edge. He allowed himself to imagine it was really Adam inside him, going for it, ruthless. “Please, Adam.” Ronan cracked, moaned a little louder. “Please, please, fuck.”

“Come,” said Adam.

His orgasm ripped through him, and he shook and shuddered against his mattress. Over the overwhelming sudden silence in his head, the underwater depth of the pleasure, Ronan heard Adam sobbing and gasping and trying brokenly to tell Ronan how good he’d been for him.

When he’d settled a bit, and Adam was still panting, he thought about when Adam had first kissed him back on the porch. About helping him move into his college dorm. About how far away he was. About Adam’s church apartment and shitty car and store-brand body wash, and his watch around Opal’s wrist, and his hands around Ronan’s throat, and how delicately he’d held Ronan, that first night after everything had suddenly stopped falling apart.

“I care about you,” he said into the phone, abruptly.

Adam didn’t say anything for a while, even after he’d caught his breath. When he spoke, his voice sounded tight. “I care about you, too.”

“Adam,” said Ronan.

“What?”

“Adam,” said Ronan again, and it wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” said Adam, “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! pls let me know what you liked and what you didn't!!


End file.
